Underhanded: A Dauntless Gladiator
by Dauntless Warrior
Summary: Zaire, transfer from Candor, is adjusting well to life as a Dauntless. She regularly fights for sport in the arena, she loves wearing black, she likes being brave. But then something happens to her best friend that is inexplicable. This is an AU, when the Dauntless/Erudite attack didn't happen, but tensions against the Abnegation are steadily growing worse.
1. Fallen Competitiors

Four knuckles slam into my cheek as I pop back up. My head snaps to the side and I grit my teeth. Yep. A big bruise on my cheek is just what I needed. _Thank you, Competitor Whatever-Your-Name-Is. _

Gritting my teeth, I face towards him and backhand him on the side of the head. He groans. I dodge his next uppercut and kick him hard in the thigh, knocking him back on his butt. I put my forearm to his neck and then he taps out. _Weakling,_ I immediately think. Even though the rules were recently changed, I still stand by my old philosophy: you fall unconscious or you keep fighting. No exceptions.

The purple-haired referee stalks over to me and sullenly lifts my hand into the air. My guess is that she just lost a bet, probably with the heavily-eyelined girl on the sidelines who is alternating between cheering and making rude gestures at her. I look at the ref and grin. _Doesn't winning feel great, Fallen Competitor? Oh wait. You wouldn't know._

I stride out of the stadium into the Pit. A large TV screen outside of the tattoo parlor replays my victory. The cameras caught my smirk of glee at the ref. Wow. Leslie's never going to let me live that one down. Being from Abnegation, she probably has a whole speech already planned about the dangers of pride. She needs to get over it. We are Dauntless now. We have been for six months.

Several people congratulate me on my win as I walk back to the apartments. When I get to the hallway, I slowly check each door. Even though (like I said) we have been here for half a year, sometimes I still forget my room number. _Oh yeah. 15b. That's it. _I sprint the rest of the way to my door and press my forefinger to the recognition pad on the square knob.

Pushing open the wooden door, I enter my apartment and then slump back against the door. I am so worn out from that fight. Unnamed Competitor put up a very good fight for about 20 minutes, but then he got tired. My guess is that it is hard to carry that ego around full-time.

I pull my shirt up over my head, fling it onto the dresser, and open my closet. I pull out black cargo pants, a red crop top and my favorite boots. As you might be able to tell, it didn't take me long to adjust to Dauntless fashion. I dress, taking longer than usual because Rhode will give me that same look he gives me every time I fight. The ridiculous "I can't believe you chose to do this with your top-notch rank" look. He doesn't understand, which makes sense. He was in last place in the combat stage of our training, where I was in first.

Grabbing a hair tie from my nightstand, I turn off of the lights and close the door, headed for the cafeteria to grab some cake and fries.


	2. Fighter Extraordinaire

"No, I didn't, Leslie! He was fine, he tapped out!" I snort with derision at Leslie's accusation that I killed Mr. Big Ego. Jak laughs. He is a Dauntless-born and isn't scared of anything except maybe talking to hot girls. I slam the table merrily in mock frustration. "God, why are you always so stiff?" I chortle at my own joke. Stiff is another name for an Abnegation.

"I don't know, why are you always so slap-happy, Candor? I would have thought you were honest and truthful, but apparently not." Leslie giggles.

"Honestly, Leslie," I lift my crop top higher than it already is and point to my abs with a grin. "The only truth I know is armor integrity." Jak and Wisty snicker.

Wisty, with a mouth full of spaghetti, says, "Well, no one can argue with that. Y'all can just eat your lunch now." Wisty is an Amity transfer that is a year older than the rest of us. She was ranked fourth in her initiate class. Now, other than chastising us for starting arguments in the cafeteria, she works as a tattoo artist in the Pit.

Jak just began a joke about the blonde that walks into a bar when a muscled mass walks up behind me. I swivel up out of my seat, turn around, and smack straight into Rhode.

"Whoops!" I stammer. I brush invisible dirt of of his shoulders while taking a step backwards. "Gotta watch where you're going, Incredible Hulk." Out of the corner of my eye, I see Wisty and Leslie exchange a cheeky smile. _Note to self: Chew them out later. _Rhode, now caught his balance, smiles down at me. Did I mention that he's 6'5"?

"What about you, killer?" He smirks, a stupid little coy smile. He must see the "Yeah-I-will-kill-you-and-make-a-crabcake-from-your-body" expression on my face, because he jokingly lifts two hands in the air in an expression of surrender. "Whoa, girl. Guess I better tap out from this conversation." He turns away and laughs, sauntering towards the buffet table.

I stand there with my mouth hanging open, completely dumbstruck by the stupidity of his bold comments. Does he not freaking know that I fight for entertainment professionally? All he needs is for me to challenge him to a match, so I can mess up his pretty face.

At the same time, his pretty face is what made me stammer when I smacked into him. God, don't you hate it when the guy you like is also the guy you hate?

Fantasy: I have another match this afternoon, so I am getting some sleep before I have to get ready for the fight. Reality: I lay facedown on my mattress, a pillow wrapped tightly over my head as my stupid alarm rings and rings and rings. Groaning, I poke my head out from under the pillow and whack the snooze button repeatedly until the clock falls off my dresser and onto the floor, where I hear a shattering sound. _Oops. _

I sit up groggily and run a hand through my hair. Looking at the smashed remains of the alarm clock on the floor, I see that it was 1:45 when it fell to its death. 1:45! _Craaaap. _The match starts at 2:00. I need to be down there now!

I throw on a mesh hoodie and black leggings. After locking my apartment door, I start sprinting down the hallway that leads to the Pit. I knock over a man with a pierced lip and almost fall off of the narrow path over the chasm, but I make it to the small prep room that leads to the ring in record time. Once I'm inside, a dark figure emerges from the back of the room. I squint and crane my neck, trying to see, who it is in the near-darkness of the prep room. I relax when I realize it's my coach, Tanra. She smiles at my flustered state. "Ran all the way here, did ya?"

"I just couldn't wait to see you," I grin sheepishly. Tanra knows me too well, definitely well enough to know that I was probably trying to sleep five minutes ago. She tosses me a pair of black finger-less gloves. I slip them on and bend down to tie my boots tighter. Tanra hands me a piece of cake she took from the cafeteria. "Sorry, it got a little squished in my pocket."

"What makes you think I care?" I stuff the squishy blob into my mouth whole. Eating cake is my pre-match ritual. I don't know why I started doing it, possibly 'cause cake is awesome. But it's become a fixture. Even Tanra doesn't question it anymore.

She walks out of the little room, not wishing me luck. She knows I don't need it. I am a "killer" after all.

The heavy door that separates me from the arena full of fans is slowly being pulled open, revealing me to the crowd. They start to get riled up, high on pure excitement and adrenaline. When the door is slowly opened fully and latched to hooks fixed on the metal side of the ring, the spectators go nuts. It's like I'm freaking Hercules, ancient Greek warrior.

But I'm not. I'm Zaire Kelsman, fighter extraordinaire.

And the crowd knows it.


End file.
